He arches an eyebrow. “How’s that possible?”
Just then, my laptop dings from my desk. I race back across the room.
“I’ll explain in the car. That’s gotta be from Travis.”
Ian stands behind me, back at the window overlooking the traffic snarling U Street, as I punch the address into Google Maps. He’s close enough that I can smell the cloying sweetness of his Old Spice aftershave. I’m sure there was a time when I found his scent appealing—before we were trapped in this glass box, before sex was just another reminder that we didn’t have a baby.
I pull up the street view and feel myself deflate.
Ian laughs. “Just our luck.”
A tree-pruning truck is parked in front, with a guy up in the lift cutting back a towering maple. The house is mostly blocked.
“This is a good thing,” I say, shoving aside my disappointment. “Mature trees are part of why we love the neighborhood, right? And we’ve been down this street before, remember? We know it’s nice.”
I have to be the one who keeps the energy up. Because no matter how many houses we lose, Ian will never feel the urgency of this search as deeply as I do. Even after all those bidding wars, he still flinches when Ginny and I remind him that offering six figures over asking is normal, that we simply don’t have any other choice.
For a government lawyer, being risk averse is basically a job requirement. Plus, he’s about as wired for struggle as his six-foot, golden-boy looks would lead you to believe. He grew up with a dad who coached his little league teams and a mom who sent him to school with homemade cupcakes on his birthdays. Two loving parents who still call us at least once a week to check in. But my childhood, erratic as it was, gave me something even more valuable, something that I have come to accept Ian will never have: hunger.
It’s why I ditched journalism to make triple the money in PR. And it’s the whole reason I pushed to buy that rundown little row house to begin with—so we could eventually sell it for enough profit to give us the life that my parents could never provide.
“Ian, let’s go.” My sneakers are on. I’m pulling my hair into a low pony, trying in vain to tuck away the grays sprouting at my temples like tinsel against jet black.
“Babe, sorry to do this, but do you mind going without me and reporting back? I need to be in the office soon,” he says. “For a lunch meeting.” I clock that he’s wearing real clothes. His mop of sandy hair is slicked with pomade.
“Are you being serious?” He acts like he’s saving the world at that job. “Ginny needs an answernow, Ian. I mean, aren’t you pumped? All these months of searching and we’ve never had an in like this.Let’s just zip up there real quick and I’ll drop you at the office when we’re done.”
He shifts his weight, deciding how much conflict he can endure so early in the day. “Okay, that should work,” he says finally. “As long as I’m in before noon.”
I wipe up his coffee ring and we’re out the door.
We’re only thirty minutes from the apartment, but we might as well have teleported to another planet.
The sidewalks in Grovemont are pristine. No discarded pizza crusts or other detritus from wasted twentysomethings stumbling around after closing time. No homeless people hassling you when all you want to do is get inside your own building. (Or is itunhousednow? Orpeople experiencing homelessness? Whatever, my point is everyone here in Grovemont is experiencing fucking paradise.)
It must be ten degrees cooler here in the summer, with all these giant trees. This is the kind of place where people get into bird-watching and growing their own tomatoes. Where the only time you hear sirens is when the fire department wants to spice things up at the Christmas parade.
Last month, someone was shot and killed outside the high school down the block from our apartment in Shaw. But just seven miles away—here in the most desirable neighborhood in the most desirable DC suburb of Bethesda—our kid will attend the very best public schools in the whole state of Maryland, possibly the entire country.
Of course, I knew the neighborhood would be perfect. I’ve been obsessed with it for a year and a half. But when we pull up to the actual house, I almost can’t believe it’s real. Like if I looked from the side, I would see that it was a flattened set from a movie titledMargo’s Dream HomeorMargo Dies and Goes to Heaven. It’s a white-painted brick Colonial, with a glossy black front doorflanked by brass lanterns. It has a lush front lawn and window boxes I’d fill with whatever type of flowers you’re supposed to put in those things.
Ian’s mom can show me. She loves her window boxes. In fact, this house looks an awful lot like Ian’s parents’ house. Which feels like it might be a sign.
Ian notices, too. “Well, I at least love it from the outside,” he says. “Kind of like my folks’ house, don’t you think?”
“I have to see the backyard,” I say.
“Wait a minute, what? You can’t just let yourself into the backyard.”
“I think I can. See that gate?” I point it out for him, through the Prius’s rolled-down window.
“No, I mean youshouldn’tlet yourself into the backyard, Margo.” He only says my name when he really wants to make a point. But I’m already out of the car.
“Come on, we’re the only ones parked out here. No one’s home. I’ll be very fast.”
“Margo, do not do this.”
“Just a quick peek. I’ll be right back.”
